


try, please, try (tried my best to get thinner)

by Witcher_Trash_Party



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Betaed, Body Image, Child Abuse, Courting Jewelry, Eating Disorders, Fainting, Hopeful Ending, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Intersex Male Omegas, M/M, Non-Linear Healing, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Relapse, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Unhealthy Beauty Standards For Omegas, fantasy sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29675169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witcher_Trash_Party/pseuds/Witcher_Trash_Party
Summary: "An omega should be small and thin," his mother tells him,like me, she doesn't add, but her delicate-looking body screams in nonetheless.Jaskier wants to grow up to be like her - short and thin and elegant in his frailness. He wants to be what an omegashouldbe. He wants to be the most perfect omega there ever was.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 537





	try, please, try (tried my best to get thinner)

**Author's Note:**

> This work deals with an eating disorder and other body image issues. This is just one experience of an eating disorder; it might seem like instant recovery but it isn't. If you think these topics might be triggering for you, please keep yourself safe and **don't read further**.
> 
> Huge thanks to [ambersagen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambersagen/pseuds/ambersagen%22) for betaing this <3

"An omega should be small and thin," his mother tells him, _like me_ , she doesn't add, but her delicate-looking body screams in nonetheless.

Jaskier wants to grow up to be like her - short and thin and elegant in his frailness. He wants to be what an omega _should_ be. He wants to be the most perfect omega there ever was.

"No alpha wants an omega that's taller than them," his father adds. "Ideally, an omega should be _at least_ a head shorter than their mate." The way he says it, it almost sounds like a warning, but Jaskier nods along nonetheless.

***

Jaskier is hiding from his tutor and their lengthy boring lessons in Pegasus’ stall. Two stablehands are laughing and joking as they clean the stall right next to it, blind to Jaskier’s presence, the strong smells in the stable masking his barely-blooming sweet omegan scent.

“You know what they say,” one stablehand says, “if your omega’s cock is bigger than your thumb, you don’t have an omega, you have a very sad beta!”

And then they both laugh as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. Jaskier looks at his own thumb, eyes wide.

***

“I don’t think he should be this big at his age,” Jaskier hears his mother say, hushed through the door to the sitting room. It’s late at night, and he had wandered out of bed to get some water, but then he stumbled upon his parents in the midst of a heated discussion.

“We’re feeding him too much,” his father decides. “I’ll tell the kitchen to halve his portions. And, of course, no sneaking _snacks_.” He spits the word with as much venom as he can muster.

***

Jaskier is hungry. He’s hungry when he wakes, and he’s hungry after he eats his meagre breakfast. He’s hungry after he eats lunch, he’s hungry after he scarfs down supper. And then he goes to sleep hungry.

When he goes down to the kitchen to make puppy eyes at the cook to get something to fill his belly, he’s ushered out, followed by pitiful looks.

“You were growing too much,” his mother explains when he comes to her, crying because of that endless hunger that plagues him. “You need to stay small and thin so that you’re beautiful, Julian. No alpha will want you if you’re ugly. It’s for your own good.”

And Jaskier wants to be loved so, so desperately - dreams of his alpha sweeping him off his feet - so he nods and resists the temptation to try to get more food from the kitchens again and suffers his hunger in silence. He wants to be beautiful. He wants to be _small_.

***

Jaskier doesn’t stop growing. He now tires easily, which is sad because that means he doesn’t have the energy to chase around the estate’s hunting dogs anymore, and he can’t really run in general. He gets thin and frail, but he gains inch after inch.

His parents decide that it would be for the best if he stopped having lunch every day. Jaskier gets even hungrier - he didn’t think something like that was possible, he never knew hunger before those first restrictions. But the good thing is, right after the hunger hurts the most, it stops, and there’s only the vague feeling of emptiness, and Jaskier can look forward to that peak and know that there’s an end in sight.

But even then, he’s constantly dizzy and he keeps himself upright only with great effort. One day, he stands up too suddenly, and the world spins around him and the next thing he knows, he’s waking up on the ground.

He realizes he must have fainted.

“Oh, Julian,” his mother coos, “I’m so proud of you! You swoon so prettily!”

Jaskier’s head hurts and his stomach hurts and his vision swims, but _that_? That warms his heart.

***

He starts growing hair. First only his armpits and his crotch, but with time, the hair on his arms and legs darkens, and dark coarse hairs start sprouting on his chest and belly as well. He can’t stop looking at it in his mirror, a vague feeling of disgust sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. An omega shouldn’t look like this.

He gathers his courage, takes a razor in hand and shaves it all off. He nicks himself more times than he cares to count.

It grows back even thicker than it was.

***

Too tall and too hairy, his parents send him to study at the Oxenfurt university. Probably so that they don’t have to see what a disappointment their son is every day.

***

Oxenfurt is a bustling city full of all kinds of people. All kinds of alphas, all kinds of betas, all kinds of omegas, all more or less comfortable in their skin.

Jaskier meets Valdo, an alpha that’s slim and lean rather than muscular, and happy to keep it that way. “Nobody would hire a bard that looks like a thug,” he says. “I’m not a brute, I’m a poet, and I look the part.”

He also meets Priscilla. She’s an omega, but she’s as tall as Valdo. She’s thin, sure, but not starved-thin, like Jaskier, she looks healthy, and her arms are strong from carrying her lute. “Why should I care what other people say an omega looks like?” she says. “I’m an omega, and I look like this.”

He meets countless others, skinny and willowy alphas and big, muscular omegas and betas of all shapes and sizes - and he finally realizes that there’s no right way to be.

Jaskier starts eating three full meals a day everyday, and sometimes he nips down to the bakery for a sweet pastry even though he isn’t feeling hungry. He puts on weight. He builds up some muscle from dancing and performing, and covers it with a soft layer of fat from eating well. He stops hating his hairy chest, and stops losing sleep over his cocklet being bigger than his thumb.

He stops holding himself to all those ridiculous standards.

He becomes comfortable in his skin, and people notice it. Most importantly, _alphas_ notice it. He takes many to bed, old and young, skinny and fat, short and tall.

He doesn’t come back to Lettenhove after he graduates, preferring to live hand-to-mouth on his own terms to being starved by his own parents.

***

Life on the road is hard, but Jaskier manages. Sometimes he gets money, sometimes he gets hard bread, but he can live off both - he’s too well-acquainted with hunger to scoff at free food. Sometimes he catches an alpha’s eye and he gets a warm dinner on top of a lovely roll in the hay.

A few weeks later, he meets a witcher in a dingy little tavern in Posada. He falls in love instantly.

Geralt smells like death and destiny and heroics and heartbreak, and also a bit like onion and horse. He’s an alpha through and through, the perfect specimen, really - big, muscular, strong, his canines sharper than human alphas’. His scarred pale skin, cat’s eyes and white hair seem to be the main things that ward off most omegas, but Jaskier likes Geralt _because_ of them rather than _in spite_ of them - they’re just evidence that Geralt is stronger and more durable than any other alpha.

***

Jaskier is in love, and Geralt doesn’t seem too opposed to the idea of the two of them together, either.

He hunts food for Jaskier, brings him dead squirrels and hares and birds like offerings for a god, before cutting them up and roasting them over the fire, not letting Jaskier get his noble hands dirty, and he lets Jaskier curl up with him in his bedroll to keep warm during the night.

It comes naturally to Jaskier to kiss him one evening as they sit by the fire.

Geralt’s pupils go so wide his eyes look entirely black in the firelight, and his face turns soft, a gentle smile playing on his lips. He leans forward and kisses Jaskier again.

They don’t go any further that night, deciding to wait for a town with an inn. “I want you to be comfortable,” Geralt tells him. “We only get one try at our first time. I want it to be perfect.”

 _It will always be perfect if it’s with you_ , Jaskier thinks, but he doesn’t push, content to just lie side by side and trade lazy kisses under the stars.

***

Their first time _is_ perfect.

They get a room at an inn in the next town they come across. Jaskier entertains the guests with his songs for two bowls of thick, filling stew and a bottle of a half-decent red, before Geralt and him make their way to their room.

Geralt presses him into the mattress. It’s hard and lumpy, but Jaskier has to agree that it’s still better than the hard floor of a forest clearing.

They kiss, slow and languid, savouring it. They undress each other with gentle hands, and plant kisses over the skin they uncover. Soon, they are both bare, and Geralt settles between Jaskier’s spread thighs before putting his mouth on him where he’s hot and wet.

He eats Jaskier out for what feels like hours, starting with his tongue but then adding a finger, two, three - until Jaskier comes, moaning his name.

“Fuck me,” Jaskier says when he catches his breath. “Gods, Geralt, _please_ , I need you inside me.”

Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice. He guides himself between Jaskier’s folds and presses in.

Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt’s middle and pulls him closer, until his hips are pressed flush against his, Geralt sheathed in him to the root. Geralt is _big_ , and Jaskier feels so, _so full_.

Geralt fucks him, slow and teasing at first, letting Jaskier feel the drag of his cock over his most sensitive spots, but as his knot begins to swell, he picks up the pace. He brings Jaskier to his peak with a hand wrapped around his stiff cocklet before he thrusts in one last time, his knot locking them together as he fills Jaskier with his seed.

“That was beautiful,” Jaskier whispers when the tie goes down.

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles, “It was.” 

They lie there for a bit longer before Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s sweaty temple, throws on some clothes and calls for a hot bath.

***

After that first night, they’re insatiable. They fuck in inns and beneath the stars, on hard beds and on thin bedrolls. They do it any way they can think of, Geralt mounting Jaskier from behind and Jaskier riding Geralt until his thighs start to shake and both of them on their sides, pleasuring each other with their mouths. After, they curl up together, and Geralt holds Jaskier like he’s something precious.

***

They’re sweaty and spent, lying in a tangled heap even though the tie has gone down some time ago. Jaskier is tracing senseless patterns on Geralt’s skin, while the witcher appears to be lost in thought.

“I want to give you something,” he finally speaks. He gently extricates himself from Jaskier’s embrace, and then he kneels at the foot of the bed to root around in his pack. He presents Jaskier with a neat little parcel. “I hope you’ll like it.”

Jaskier opens it. Inside, there are two matching bracelets made out of silver wire and a necklace out of a thin silver chain.

_Courting jewelry._

Jaskier lets out a sharp gasp.

He picks it up piece by piece, examining it closely. The bracelets are perfect copies, each loop and knot and spiral the wire has been bent into on one of them is mirrored on the other. The necklace has three layers: the first one is plain and will probably wrap right around Jaskier’s throat; the second a little longer, the thin chain interspersed with silver beads; the third chain is simple except for the silver flower pendant on it.

“Is it - hmm,“ Geralt starts and immediately cuts himself off. He tries again. “Is it okay?”

Only then Jaskier realizes there are tears in his eyes. “It’s beautiful,” he breathes. “Truly, Geralt, thank you.”

“Put it on?” Geralt asks, _pleads_ , more like - and Jaskier cannot resist.

He puts on the bracelets while Geralt helps him fasten the necklace, and then he quickly fishes his pocket mirror out of his pack so that he can see himself.

 _Gods_ , he looks -- 

_He looks --_

Jaskier’s stomach drops, his joy disappears.

He looks _ridiculous_.

The thin chain wrapped around his throat makes him worry that if he takes too big of a breath, it will snap and break. The rest of the necklace looks strange as it lays on his too-broad chest, the delicate craftsmanship clearly meant to compliment a slighter, _prettier_ frame. The alluring glint of silver gets lost in his thick, dark, coarse chest hair.

The bracelets don’t look any better - the wire looks stupid where it encircles his thick wrist, and it brings attention to his big hands. The bracelets press against his skin in more places than not, but they should hang loose, with at least a finger’s width between his wrist and the wire.

The dainty, beautiful jewelry suddenly, after years of denial, helps him see how _ugly_ he is. He doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry as he watches his reflection. He’s fucking _grotesque_.

His shoulders are too wide. He has too much meat on his arms. His stomach is pudgy, he can’t see his ribs beneath his skin. His thighs are so fat that there’s no gap between them. He’s hairy all over. How could he be so blind? How could he think it was okay that he looked like this? He was the most hideous omega he has ever seen.

Someone so disgusting doesn’t deserve to wear something so pretty. Jaskier isn’t worthy of this delicate, shiny jewelry.

He hurriedly takes it off and hides it in the parcel again, tying it closed. He puts it in his pack in a place where he won’t stumble upon it anytime soon. At Geralt’s questioning gaze, he plasters on a fake smile and tells him that it’s beautiful (which it is) and that he doesn’t want to lose it (which he doesn’t). Then he gives Geralt a sweet kiss and drags him beneath the covers to sleep.

He lays awake for long hours, grappling with his realization.

***

Geralt is the perfect alpha. He’s well-built and strong, his body all sculpted muscle. He provides for Jaskier, hunts food for him, grants him access to the coin he makes on hunts, buys pretty courting jewelry for him. He’s kind and gentle and witty and brave and Jaskier loves him _so much_. And his knot is the best Jaskier ever had.

Jaskier couldn’t ask for a better partner, truly. Geralt is pure perfection, the epitome of alphahood - he deserves only the best. But instead, he gets _Jaskier_ , an ugly parody of an omega. He’s big and fat and hairy where he should be small and thin and smooth. He’s _too much_ and _not enough_ all at once. He’s tragically imperfect.

And Geralt can’t possibly love Jaskier as much as Jaskier loves him, can’t truly love Jaskier if he’s imperfect - because only perfect, small, skinny omegas are worthy of love. Worthy of being kept, of being mated.

If Jaskier wants to be worthy of love, too, he has to _make_ himself into that perfect, small omega.

***

Jaskier refuses breakfast that morning, blaming his overindulgence in the local ale last night. He’s grateful Geralt doesn’t point out he only had two tankards - he’s probably glad Jaskier is _finally_ doing something with himself. He must be tired of sharing his life with such a slob. It’s so sweet of Geralt not to give up on Jaskier right away, to give him an opportunity to be better, allow him to try and make himself worthy of Geralt.

When that first ache of an empty stomach makes itself known, it’s comforting. It almost makes Jaskier giddy. If it hurts, it works, and that means that he’ll be perfect in no time.

But the hours drag on and after years of eating whenever he wants, abstaining is hard. His stomach is growling loudly by noon, and so he caves in and eats a meagre lunch. The food turns to ash in his mouth.

***

The pang of hunger seems much harder to ignore than when he was younger. Maybe it’s because this time, he’s on his own, having to keep himself in check, no loving parents to help him with that. Or maybe he just forgot what price you pay for beauty.

He soldiers on, though. He pushes through the pain until he gets to that empty feeling that doesn’t hurt. He eats very little or, ideally, he doesn’t eat at all, blaming nausea or just not being hungry - he doesn’t want to make things awkward by spelling out what’s going on, hoping that maybe, when it’s all over, they could just pretend that Jaskier had always been perfect for Geralt, right from the start.

 _You’re doing this for Geralt_ , he reminds himself when it’s hard, and when things get even harder: _You’re doing this for yourself, Jaskier_.

Geralt might entertain his affections for a bit, but he won’t _keep_ Jaskier, not when he looks like _this_ , and gods, there’s nothing Jaskier wants more than to be kept. He so, _so_ desperately wishes to be kept.

***

Jaskier rides Geralt as hard and as fast as he can. He’s a little out of breath, and he feels sweatier than usual, but Geralt seems to be enjoying himself, given by his grunts and gasps, and that’s all that matters.

Geralt’s hands settle on his waist, and Jaskier’s eyes are immediately drawn there. Cold dread settles in his stomach when he sees how much space there is between Geralt’s hands. His thumbs don’t touch in the front, don’t even come close. Jaskier can’t bear to look at it, at this proof of his inadequacy, and he’s sure Geralt can’t either.

He covers Geralt’s hands with his own - and then hesitates, unsure of where to move them. No place on his body feels better or safer, not his chest, covered in that unattractive thick mat of hair, not his soft, squishy thighs.

In the end, he drags them to cup his face. His face is fine, he supposes - especially if he shaves daily - his features soft and boyish, his skin without a wrinkle or a blemish. Maybe it’s pretty enough to distract from his ugly body. He leans down to kiss Geralt as they rock together, hiding himself from view.

When they come and Geralt’s knot ties them together, Jaskier is absolutely exhausted. He slumps forward, lying on Geralt’s broad chest, trying to catch his breath.

But he can’t help but notice how much space he takes up in Geralt’s embrace. He’s too big. He’s almost as tall as Geralt, only an inch or two between them - _Ideally, an omega should be_ at least _a head shorter than their mate_ , his father’s voice sounds in his ear, cold and stern. And gods, he must be so, so heavy - he must be _crushing_ Geralt - Jaskier’s mass on his chest can’t be comfortable at all.

He feels weak after the exertion of their coupling, but he gathers the last of his energy to brace himself against the ground and hold himself up on his arms, taking his weight off of Geralt. He doesn’t want to ruin their afterglow by reminding Geralt how big and heavy he is.

By the time the knot goes down, the muscles of Jaskier’s arms are screaming in agony. Geralt offers to cuddle, but Jaskier doesn’t want him to fall asleep thinking about how over-sized his omega is, so he declines and curls up, alone, into the smallest ball he can bend his body into.

***

Jaskier idly wraps the thumb and index finger of one hand around the wrist of the other. His fingers touch, and when he squeezes really hard, they overlap by quite a bit. The sight brings a smile to his face.

He hasn’t worn the jewelry Geralt gifted to him since the night he got it, but maybe he could soon, if he keeps this up, if he carves away enough of himself to make it fit like it’s supposed to. He’s looking forward to it - it’s so beautiful, so delicate, but most importantly, it marks Jaskier as _Geralt’s_. It shows the world that Geralt wants to keep him. It shows the world that he’s worth being kept.

Geralt’s voice pulls him out of his daydreams. “You should eat something,” he says, nudging a bowl of stew towards him. He’s eating his own, sitting across from Jaskier at a small corner table in a busy tavern.

The smell makes Jaskier’s mouth water, but he has to be strong. “I’m not hungry,” he says with a pleasant smile. “You should eat it, so you have enough energy for the nekkers later.”

Geralt frowns. “You weren’t hungry when we had breakfast, either.”

Jaskier shrugs nonchalantly.

“You weren’t hungry yesterday,” Geralt continues, “and the day before that.”

Jaskier hears the accusation in his voice. “Yes, and? What’s your point?” he growls. He thought they were both of the opinion that it would be best if they didn't talk about this.

Geralt looks so lost at Jaskier’s outburst. It makes sense - Jaskier doesn’t have any right to be angry, he did this to himself. “I just - I just want to know if you’re okay, Jaskier.”

Jaskier is far from okay. He hates his body with a burning passion, and he’s so hungry he could cry, and he feels weak and tired all the time.

“I’m fine,” he says, and it comes out harsher than intended. He shakes his head and tries again. “More than fine, dear heart. I’ve never been better.”

Geralt gives him a dubious look, but he doesn’t press, instead focusing on his stew.

He eats the other bowl too, looking strangely hesitant about it.

After Geralt leaves for his hunt, Jaskier goes up to their room and buries himself under the covers. He has no energy for performing. He misses it, but he’d rather give up music than give up love.

***

Jaskier is so weak he can barely keep up with Geralt when they travel, even though he knows the witcher is going much slower than he used to. It doesn’t help that he’s constantly dizzy, and more often than not, he has to hold onto Roach’s saddlebags so that he doesn’t stumble and fall.

They cover much shorter distances like this, and Jaskier can see Geralt grow frustrated. He’s always frowning, watching Jaskier’s every move with wary eyes.

Jaskier tries to appease him with sex, since he can’t be a better travel companion. Geralt looks hesitant about it, but Jaskier always manages to persuade him in the end.

He doesn’t have the strength to do much when they lie together. He just lies back and takes it, a pliant little thing for Geralt to use, like is proper.

Geralt’s hand wraps around his cocklet to jerk him off. Jaskier zeroes in on that, his prick downright _obscene_ in Geralt’s grasp. It looks crude.

In his mind, he hears the laugh of the stablehands, and their rough, jovial voices, claiming, _if your omega’s cock is bigger than your thumb, you don’t have an omega_.

“No!” Before he knows what he’s doing, his hand shoots out, and he’s clutching Geralt’s wrist, pulling it away from his cocklet. “No,” he squeaks. He takes a breath to calm himself, tries to rein in his panic. “No,” he repeats, voice a little more even, “want to come on your cock alone.”

Geralt seems he’s about to protest, but then he folds himself over Jaskier’s body, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck, nosing at his scent glands, and continues fucking him, keeping his hands far away from Jaskier’s over-grown prick.

Jaskier wonders if there is any way to fix _that_.

***

One foot after the other. And again, and again. Jaskier can’t focus on anything past that. His legs are heavy, like they’re made of lead. He’s dragging them behind himself, barely able to properly lift them. Every step gets harder and harder.

His hand is uncomfortably sweaty where he holds onto Roach’s tack with a white-knuckled grip. He feels the leather slipping from his grasp.

There’s buzzing in his ears, his head is spinning. Everything feels so far away.

Suddenly, it all stops.

When Jaskier comes to, he’s lying on the grass next to the road, Geralt leaning over him.

Jaskier realizes he has fainted. He feels pride swell in his chest at that. He _fainted_! Geralt must be thrilled to _finally_ see Jaskier swoon like a proper omega. Jaskier is still a bit too big for his own liking, but the finish line must be in sight if he’s finally _swooning_.

He turns to look at Geralt, all excited - but his joy quickly disappears when he sees the look on his face.

Geralt doesn’t look happy. He doesn’t look happy _at all_.

Is this too little, too late?

“Jaskier, are you okay?” Geralt asks, frantic. His eyes are wide, but his pupils are only thin slits. His face is twisted with… worry?

“Thirsty.”

Geralt holds a waterskin to Jaskier’s lips and helps him drink. Then, he pulls out an apple, a pretty, red thing, and cuts a thin slice from it. He offers it to Jaskier.

Jaskier licks his lips, but he shakes his head. “Not… hungry,” he mumbles.

Geralt presses his lips together into a thin line. “Eat it.”

“I said…” Jaskier insists weakly, “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry these days, Jaskier,” Geralt barks, “and yet I can hear your stomach growling even in the middle of the busiest tavern. Eat. The. Damn. Apple.”

He can’t. He has to be small and thin and dainty. He has to make himself pretty. He has to make himself enough. And Geralt _must_ know that.

“Stop that,” Jaskier rasps. “I’m trying so hard… I thought you’d be charitable enough not to comment on it.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“You’re really going to make me say it? Can’t say I’m surprised. I know it has taken me too long, that even you have reached the end of your patience.” He should have tried harder, should have started sooner - should have never stopped in the first place. “I need to make myself smaller, so that you’ll be able to love me.”

When Jaskier finds the courage to look Geralt in the eyes again, he looks _broken_.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he says. His voice cracks. Jaskier has never seen him so overcome with emotion. “Jaskier, why would you ever need to do that?”

“ _An omega should be small and thin_ ,” he recites his mother’s words. “You are the perfect alpha, so you deserve the perfect omega. Only perfect omegas are worthy of being kept. And I so do want you to keep me, Geralt.”

“When have I _ever_ said I want a small and dainty omega?”

Jaskier splutters. “But - but my mother - and my father - they said - ”

“I don’t care what they said,” Geralt tells him. “They don’t get to decide what _I_ want. I don’t want you to be like this. I don’t want you to be _small_.” He spits the word as if it has personally offended him.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier whispers. He can’t comprehend the situation he has found himself in.

"I don't want some poor starved skin-and-bones omega. I want someone with enough muscle and fat to survive on the Path. I want someone strong. I want someone healthy. I'll love you, whatever shape or size you come in - but this isn't healthy." Geralt looks tortured. His eyes hold a heavy, terrible sadness. "This is _killing you_ , Jaskier."

Jaskier gulps. Suddenly, he remembers his mother's face, her pale skin, her sullen cheeks, the dark circles around her eyes.

"I can't keep you if you're dead," Geralt says, voice gentle but _desperate_. "And I so do want to keep you."

There are tears in Jaskier's eyes.

"Is this why you haven't been wearing the jewelry I gave you?" Geralt asks softly. His face is twisted with hurt.

"Yes," Jaskier confesses. He feels hot shame creeping up his neck. "It's so pretty and delicate - I felt too ugly for it."

Geralt makes a wounded noise at the back of his throat. "I - I thought you didn't want to be seen wearing a witcher's jewelry. I thought you weren't taking our relationship as seriously as I was."

A shocked gasp escapes Jaskier. He was so preoccupied with his own problems, how he would look if he wore the jewelry, that he didn't even stop to think about how it would look to Geralt if he didn't wear it. He hurt Geralt, made him feel unwanted, made him think Jaskier was _ashamed_ of him. "Gods, dear heart, I am so, _so_ sorry -- "

"No need to apologize," Geralt says. He takes Jaskier's bony hand in his, twines their fingers together. "You were fighting your own demons. Now," he holds the apple slice up to Jaskier's mouth, " _please_ , eat."

Jaskier takes a deep breath.

It’s okay. He’s allowed to eat. Geralt _wants_ him to eat. And Jaskier is _so_ hungry - eating should be easy. He’s trembling as he takes the apple in his mouth. He’s trembling as he chews.

And chews.

And chews.

The apple turns into a sweet mush in his mouth. There’s nothing left to chew. He’ll have to swallow.

It’s a terrifying thought.

But Geralt is here, kneeling in the grass right next to him, giving him an encouraging smile, his eyes so full of warmth and love. It makes Jaskier want to be brave.

He braces himself - 

and swallows.


End file.
